


Remission

by Unbidden



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overwatch Recall, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-01
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23891848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unbidden/pseuds/Unbidden
Summary: The thing of it is, it's not agood idea,what Winston is doing. In fact, it's batshit insane. The UN did everything in its power to obliterate anything left of Overwatch after the explosion, and on top of that madedamnsure it'd never comeback.Winston is, by all accounts, spitting in their collective eye, and for McCree to join, as well-- well, it's...switchin' the 'p' to an 'h,'he snorts. And, yet. Winston is Winston, and McCree's made a lot of promises he's keen yet to fulfill.
Relationships: Genji Shimada & Hanzo Shimada, Jesse McCree & Genji Shimada, Jesse McCree & Overwatch Ensemble, Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Kudos: 20





	1. Call and Response

The Southwestern sun has turned deadly in the late summer this year, so much so that even the Omnic families who remain after the evacuation stay huddled inside their houses for fear of melting. McCree couldn’t ask for better weather; a little coolant in his chestplate and his arm, and a canteen in place of one of his flashbangs, and he’s free to roam without fear of pursuit. He’s been taking the opportunity to terrorize a gang which had been on his nerves for some time.

If he’s being honest, he almost doesn’t answer the Recall when it comes to him through the dusty adobe of the hovel he’s squatting in. This isn’t through any misgivings of his; rather, it’s because he nearly shoots his decrepit comm in surprise that morning as it becomes his impromptu alarm. After that, he treats it as sacred— prays for every update, thanks the heavens when they trickle in. Despite this, he deliberately waits a few days before he responds, fooling himself into thinking he'd ever say no. Then, he gives Winston an inflated time frame, just because he's obstinate.

The thing of it is, it's not a _good_ _idea_ , what Winston is doing. In fact, it's batshit insane. The UN did everything in its power to obliterate anything left of Overwatch after the explosion, and on top of that made _damn_ sure it'd never come _back_. Winston is, by all accounts, spitting in their collective eye, and for McCree to join, as well-- well, it's... _switchin' the p to an h,_ he snorts. And, yet. Winston is Winston, and McCree's made a lot of promises he's keen yet to fulfill.

Winston never calls him directly, perhaps for fear of interrupting whatever he must be into on his side of the Atlantic (He knows about the bounty, though he avoided the subject longer than McCree thought he would). Lena, it seems, is having no such reservations as she works her way through the list of responding agents, call by call. Luckily, he’s already packed up and heading east, so things are quiet enough to answer. He steels himself and picks the ringing comm up with a “howdy,” then tears it away from his ear as Lena’s ecstatic greeting booms from the device.

“You’re coming?” Her voice has softened marginally but is no less excited.

It takes him a moment of worrying the unruly scruff at his jawline to say it out loud. “Yeah. Winston ‘n I are workin’ out the details ‘fore I head out—be there prob’ly in the next week or so.” Said 'details' mainly concern the legality of his travel methods. McCree thinks often of pointing out that technically, nothing he does is legal anymore, but he doubts Winston would appreciate the humor in it. 

“I can hardly wait,” she exclaims. “Genji!” He’s distracted for a moment by the amusement of having her voice so loud even as she turns away from the microphone, but sobers as the name processes. “Did you hear him? Yeah, it’s Jesse! ...I _know!”_ He’s hearing a distant, much quieter voice between each of Lena’s outbursts which he strains his ears to discern. “Yeah, next week,” she replies to it.

 _How long has it been?_ he wonders. He'd figure out the number if he thought about it for a moment, but that isn't really what he cares about.

“Genji says hi.” Her attention has returned to him, and she is, thankfully, unaware of his sudden shift in temperament.

“‘Llo,” he mumbles numbly, brainwaves flatlining for an additional few moments. He shakes himself, clearing his throat. “Glad to hear the bastard’s still kickin’.” That much is true, without a doubt— but any other feelings about Genji are steeped in guilt he’d rather not confront at the moment. Mercifully, Lena signs off after only a metric ton of questions asked faster than he can answer them, giving him a hearty farewell and a pleading request that he bring some sweets with him when he arrives. As much as she loves Reinhardt’s cooking, she stage-whispers, she misses her junk food. His laugh is not as full as it should be as he hangs up.

He runs a hand through his hair, then curses as it catches in a joint of his prosthetic. “ _Fuckin’_ dumbass,” he winces. The mistake forces Genji to the front of his mind again. He pictures his face, wonders how the years have treated him and his cybernetic body. He wonders what he must think of him. He doesn’t know Genji’s thoughts on his running away from Blackwatch all those years ago, leaving him as good as alone against... all of _that_. He thinks he’d prefer not to find out. He imagines a look could be enough to fry him in his boots.

After that revelation, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he stalls a little on his trip, maybe checks his trail a few more times than is needed. Of course, no one besides himself would know that, so he is not rushed. He arrives late at night, travel-weary and sick of carrying the lone pack which fit easily everything he had to his name. Athena is the only one to greet him, for which he is quietly grateful. He walks almost on autopilot through the base, stopping occasionally for some admittedly strategic sightseeing. Winston has repurposed one of the larger rooms for his lab. The mess hall fridge is well-stocked with leftovers— _Reinhardt,_ he nods.

He turns to the cabinets and curls two of the Cow Tales he found in Indiana into the box of PG Tips Lena drinks, sticking another in his mouth and the few remaining back in his bag. The rest of his additions to the food supply land in the most unobtrusive spot he can find, next to some small, Japanese-labeled cartons. He supposes those must belong to Genji, but decides he will take the risk of running into him here. After all, he is not avoiding him. Jesse McCree does not avoid people. 

He ambles his way down the dorm hallway, too worn out to focus on much besides his own room. He reaches his door, frowns at a line of bright orange sticky notes crammed with writing. It’s Lena, explaining every single detail of the dorms and where everything is located. Thoughtful, but damn overwhelming. He pokes out the code to get in, haphazardly tossing his pack into the closet before he dead drops face-down onto his bed, letting out a small groan. He means to remove his hat at least, but the stupor of sleep catches him before he can muster the will to move.

* * *

He awakes with a displaced joint in his left hand and a headache. He has not slept long; he never does. He risks a glance at the clock across the room: 04:00. He picks up his comm. “Hey, ‘Thena,” he mumbles.

“Yes, Agent McCree?”

“What time’d I get here?”

“Security footage shows... around 1:30 A.M.”

“Thank ya kindly,” he groans, sitting up. It was more sleep than he usually got all at once; he counts it as a win as he stumbles over to the bathroom. After a cursory glance in the mirror, he decides he is long overdue for a shower. He leaves his malfunctioning prosthetic just outside the door and indulges in the steaming water for an entire fifteen minutes before stepping out to look in the mirror again. The state in which he is reuniting with old friends is... not ideal. The scruff at his jaw seems past taming; the clothing he has brought is disheveled at best; his physique has seen much better days. After so much time in solitude, though, he can’t bring himself to care much. He straightens himself out to some facsimile of presentable, then lumbers from his room towards the kitchen, bee-lining for the coffee he stored the night before.

He's watching it boil, a method he's grown used to on the run, as he senses he is not alone. The back of his neck prickles at the realization, and in a moment he is certain he is being watched. However, when he turns around, the kitchen is empty. He shakes his head, convincing himself that he’s just jumpy. The scare turns the indoors stuffy, however, and he is compelled to step outside as soon as his coffee is poured into the most nondescript mug he can find (it's light pink and flowery). He makes his way to the balcony overlooking the cliffs.

It's hard not to reminisce as he stares out past the railing, the stark red sunrise burning disks that swim and fall swiftly in his vision as he sets his gaze out over the rocks, mind someplace far away. A tight knot of some unnamed terror had made itself known in his gut ever since he responded to Winston, twisting around and around his organs as he approached his self-set deadline. He expected it to run out of steam once he arrived, but it's yet to relinquish its hold. He sets down his barely-touched mug on the small table behind him to pull out a cigar (usually reserved for jobs, but to hell with it) and deliberately bends his still-broken joints in his prosthetic to spark and light it. He supposes he'll have to kick that habit, now, before Lindholm catches him. He takes a deep drag, holds it until it starts to burn, then puffs it out in a rough sigh. 

It used to be that he'd speak to himself in these rare moments of silence, too used to the safety of noise to be without it for long. Since being on the run, however, he's found a new respect for letting the world take the floor for a while. He lets the breeze and the waves below catch up with each other like old friends, eavesdropping with a reverent ear. As he settles onto the railing, his muscles slowly lock into place, not stiff, but unwilling to move. He remains completely still beyond the odd pull from the cigar until the footsteps which enter the room draw from him a cursory glance. He almost tenses, but knows Athena would have warned him of any danger. 

The man before him raises his chin slightly as he halts in the doorway. McCree gives him a once-over, only his sun-spotted eyes making any movement, then gives a flick of the head in lieu of a greeting, turning back to his view. The face is unfamiliar, but he didn't know a whole lot of Overwatch, if he's honest. What he recognizes is the faint herbal scent he had previously assumed was part of the kitchen-- The presence he had felt earlier must not have been lingering paranoia, after all. 

He hears the faint inhale across the few feet between them as the man prepares to speak, but no sound breaks forth before another set of footsteps enter, this time from his other side.  McCree deflates a little at the sound of it. He should have known better than to think no one else would be awake at this hour. He taps his cigar against the railing, blinking tiredly down at the rocks below.

“Ah, Hanzo! I see you have found Jesse. I did not know you had arrived.” McCree does tense this time as he realizes it's Genji speaking (the thing in his gut gives a powerful clench), then quickly twists around in the same movement to disguise it. He's probably not smiling as he looks over at him, but he can't really bring himself to. That's more because of his own guilt than anything, because, well. Genji looks _happy._ He's covered up just about all of himself now, so it's not that McCree can tell if he's smiling, either, but he's ditched his Blackwatch red for a lime green which pulses softly as he nearly bounces on the balls of his feet, and McCree finds within himself a small upturn of the lips at the sight of the new energy. 

He processes the implicit question a moment later, and quickly says, "Only just got here."

"In the morning? In the _early_ morning?" There's a teasing note in Genji's tone now, easily recognized for how often McCree warranted its use. "These years have changed you, cowboy." 

McCree huffs, caught in the nostalgia. "You're one to talk. Almost didn't recognize ya in this lighting." He gestures to the sunrise. 

Genji laughs, and McCree can't help the tilt of his head, and the widening of his own smile. The thing in his gut recoils from the cheerful sound of it. "You remind me I must never allow you and my Master in the same room. Between the two of you, I may never recover emotionally." He turns to the other man, who has been silently watching them with a furrowed brow. "I am already at risk with you two together. Ah!" He raises a hand towards each of them. "But you have not met. Hanzo, this is Jesse McCree, one of my old teammates. Jesse," and he takes a step between them, placing his hands on their shoulders. "This is my brother, Hanzo."


	2. Chapter 2

Dead silence follows his name, even the waves below seeming to quiet as McCree’s gaze pierces into the man before him. Their eyes meet steadily, neither giving anything away. Genji’s grip tightens minutely.

There are few in Overwatch who would know that Genji Shimada ever existed. Fewer would know of his brother, Hanzo. You could count on one hand all who knew what Hanzo did. McCree alone knows what Hanzo  _meant_. He alone heard the whimpers, shouts, and whispered pleas echoing out of his teammate’s throat in the night, saw the tears, and weathered the lingering, festering rage. 

Something hot as coals drops down the back of McCree’s neck, fiercely protective and desperate for penance, tensing his muscles one by one. Only Genji’s hand stills him from real action, as is likely the man’s purpose in putting it there. In the next moment, however, the wrathful energy turns on its handler. Within him, it births the grim remembrance that while Hanzo may have turned his fangs upon his brother, McCree left him to die to slower and crueler hounds. And, the resulting guilt must show on his face, because something shifts in Hanzo’s gaze. It’s grimly satisfied in an ugly way, but it shows that they understand each other, he hopes.

“Welcome to the land of second chances, Hanzo.” He smiles—rather sardonically, but it seems to be enough for Genji, who swiftly and smoothly releases them both with a good-natured shove. He supposes Genji might have gone into this expecting far worse. McCree returns to his railing, pulling deep from his cigar to distract from his thoughts as Genji moves on behind him.

“He will likely be working with us some time in the future,” Genji explains, ignoring the bit-off comment this statement seems to spawn from Hanzo as he continues. “Sorry to leave you so soon, but I must go meet with Zenyatta. I am glad to see you, Jesse. We must catch up once the others are done swarming you.”

_Catch up,_ McCree thinks.  _Ain’t_ that _foreboding_. Out loud, he says, “‘Course, partner,” and then Genji is gone. Hanzo remains, which he finds strange, but he doesn’t bother to look back for answers as he hears movement behind him. A few steps, and Hanzo joins his recline against the railing. 

“You know,” he rasps. The voice is rougher than McCree expected. 

“I know,” McCree nods once, huffing out smoke through his nose. There’s a pause. 

“Well?” He sounds impatient—borderline exasperated.  


McCree looks at him then, frowning.  “Well, what?” He intones, warning.

Hanzo looks for a brief moment like he might slap him. The next moment, all the tension leaves him in a rush, gaze falling. He curses under his breath as he pushes off the railing, striding away.

“Nice meeting you, friend,” McCree turns and calls after him, frowning at his chilled coffee in consternation. _What the hell was that about?_

* * *

At a more reasonable hour, he heads down into the common area again. He no sooner enters the kitchen than he is physically accosted by Lena with a jubilant “Jesse!”, almost knocking the last, sad coffee dregs clean out of his floral mug. Startled from his contemplation, he doesn’t recover in time to return the hug before she’s backed off. She seems to misinterpret his hesitation, faltering slightly as she looks up at him from a more respectful distance. _Oh, that ain’t gonna do._

He huffs fondly. “Lil’ Miss Lena.” He gestures broadly with his mug as he continues, “Ain’t you lookin’ pretty as a peach.” He leans forward with a grin, mood forgotten. “And sweeter, to boot.” 

She hums amusedly, flicking the brim of his hat. “You’re too much, Jesse McCree. Oh!” She turns on her heel. “Guys! This is McCree!” She flips back to him. “These two are Lúcio and Hana. They’re new!”

McCree lifts his head to witness the dawn of two of the most incredulous expressions he’s seen in his entire life. Sure enough, he recognizes the two of them from the files Winston sent him during his trip over. He’s too tired to properly grin, but he gives both of them a soft smile and an incline of the head along with his customary, “Howdy.” He’s over to the counter and setting his mug down before one of them finally speaks up.

“Uh... hi.” McCree glances back to confirm that it’s Lúcio’s voice. “Are you—” He sounds slightly strangled, turning to Lena for guidance. “Is he...”

She beams. “Amazingly cool? Dashingly handsome?”

“...for real?” Hana finishes flatly. “We thought you were joking.”

“Aw, Lena,” McCree affects bashfulness. “Did you talk me up?” He sets down his mug and reaches for the nearest grub, which happens to be an apple. He's quietly pleased at their disbelief; he's always gotten a kick out of people's reactions to even his casual getup.

“Might’ve done,” she hums. “Did you accomplish my mission?”

“Mighta done,” he winks. 

She gasps. “Where where where where where?” She bounces up and down on her toes, advancing on him rapidly.

He holds his hands up placatingly, shrinking from her intensity with a hurried, “It’s with your stuff!” He shakes his head on the exhale as she blinks over to her cabinet, digging through madly. “God forbid a man try to be  _covert_ about anythin’ these days.” He takes a large bite of the apple.

She gives a manic laugh as she claims her spoils, tearing into the wrapper. “High fructose corn syrup, how I’ve missed you,” she sighs, biting into the rope with an expression of pure bliss. 

“Oh no,” groans Hana. “You snuck her sugar?” 

“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talkin’ about.” McCree takes another bite, maintaining steady eye contact. “I have merely," he finishes chewing and swallows, "alerted young Miss Lena to the presence of foreign materiel in that there cabinet. What she chooses to do with that information is her business.” He gestures broadly with the apple as he speaks, brow furrowing in mock seriousness.

“Mff,” Lena concurs, nodding decisively.

“Lúcio, I think we might be the adults here,” Hana muses after a slight pause.

“Don’t say that. That’s terrifying,” Lúcio side-eyes her. He turns to McCree, desperation in his gaze. “Please. Mr. Marston. Redeem yourself somehow. I cannot be the most responsible person in this— in  _any_ room.”

McCree shrugs, somewhat helplessly. “Can’t help you there, partner. Never have been, never will be.”

Hana gives him a pointed once-over in agreement, but before she can vocalize it, Angela strides into the room. 

Lena quickly hides the remaining length of candy rope behind her back. The move is—politely put—blatantly obvious, but the doctor is thankfully distracted by McCree’s presence.

“Jesse,” she begins, smiling fondly. He straightens slightly out of habit as she approaches him. She places a gentle hand on his shoulder, then looks down and freezes. “It’s good to see— What on earth is _that?”_

He lifts his brow, nonplussed. “Nice to see you too, Doc.” 

“No, _really,_ Jesse.” She grabs him by the metal wrist and yanks it toward herself to inspect it, looking mildly horrified. “Who did this to you?” His stomach twists for a moment, scrambling for a deflection, before she continues. “This craftsmanship may cause Torbjörn to _weep_.” 

He bites back a sigh of relief. “And I’d hate to cause the old man undue distress, so— _Ow!”_ He can’t help but yelp in surprise as she reaches up and slaps him upside the head. It shocks a chuckle out of him as she scolds him.

“We’re going to the workshop right now to get this dreadful thing off your arm, and then I am going to do a full check-up. And you are going to _cooperate_ , Jesse,” she hisses as she tugs him along, “because otherwise, I shall confiscate your cigarettes.” She’s clearly straining to keep any amusement at his reaction out of her voice by the time she’s done, but it does little to undermine the authority in her tone. She holds up a finger in front of his nose to stop him protesting as she adds, “ _And_ the cigars!”

He shoots a pleading look at the other three in the room, but receives only shocked looks all around. He’s on his own. “But see, Doc,” he tries, “I only just—“

“Athena, please inform Mister Lindholm that we are on our way.” 

“Already done, Doctor Ziegler.” Athena betrays nothing in her tone, but he can tell she’s laughing at him without any clues.

“Thank you.” Angela, for once displaying a likeness to her code name, takes pity on his posture as they walk and lets go of his wrist, but gives him a stern look to keep him following.

“It really ain’t that bad,” he grouses under his breath. Louder, “It’s just a joint out of alignment, Doc.” He stifles a grunt of pain as he corrects it with no small amount of effort. “See? Good as new.”

Angela’s horrified expression intensifies. “If _that_ is how good it was when it was new, I should like to have some words with its manufacturer. You are not getting out of this, Jesse—Nor will you escape the check-up,” she adds as he opens his mouth.

McCree sighs in resignation, allowing a lapse into silence beyond the clack of their heels on the hall floor. 

After a minute or so, Angela begins shooting him sideways looks. He can’t interpret them, but she keeps doing it, so eventually he asks. “What?”

She gives him an odd look before seemingly recovering. “Nothing. I was just thinking. It’s... been a long time, Jesse.” She sets a hand on his arm as they walk. 

He takes a bite of his apple to hide his expression and swallows. “That it has.”

“I suppose you’ve heard about what I’ve been up to, one way or another.”

“Sure.” It takes him a second and another weird look to realize she’s prompting him desperately. “Uh...” He scrambles for a topic to latch onto, looking to his apple for answers. “Yeah. I seen you been doin’ a lot o’ good out there, Doc,” he manages after an awkward pause.

She hums. “I try to, at least.” A sigh. “Of course, now, I am here, doing God knows what.” She smiles again, looking up at him. “But, you know how it is. They call...”

“We come runnin’, apparently,” he nods. “How many are here already? Feels like near twenty.”

“Oh, not nearly so many,” she dismisses. “Whom have you met so far?”

He counts off on his metal fingers, whirring and clicking as he moves. “Winston and Lena, and you, obviously. Then, Lúcio and Hana in the kitchen earlier. And then Genji and his brother. And, I think Genji mentioned someone else? Zenyatta?” 

He looks back over to see that Angela’s gaze has turned sharp. “Zenyatta is an omnic monk he studied under. You will see him around,” she nods before moving on. 

McCree blinks. _A monk?_ _Studying?_ Genji _?_

“You have met his brother?”

“Yeah, Hanzo.” She gives him an expectant look, and he belatedly remembers she knows, too. He wonders how _that_ introduction went. “Genji said he’d be workin’ with us.” His tone is carefully even.

She scoffs, looking away.

“ _An_ gela,” he admonishes, lightly scandalized.  


”I’m sorry,” she amends. “That was rude of me. But... You know.”  


“That I do,” he sighs. "But, Genji knows what he's about, Doc... I trust his judgement," he clarifies at her blank look.  


"As do I, of course. Of course. But— Jesse. The man is—"

"In good company," McCree insists. "Ain't nobody here don't regret one thing or another."

"That..." Angela blinks. "I am almost certain that was too many negatives. But," she holds up a placating hand at his indignant scowl, "I understand your point. We have all made mistakes here, however... varying in size."

"Second chances, Doc," he reasserts as they reach the workshop door.

Her face softens. "Of course, Jesse." Looking into her eyes, McCree wonders if she’s hearing him say that, or someone else.


End file.
